


Noon

by MadTheLine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Healing, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3366512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadTheLine/pseuds/MadTheLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary passed away seven months ago of leukemia and John is finally moving on.</p><p>EDIT**** this is no longer a part of the twenty four hours series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noon

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, a big thank you to my sister dontyoudarestiles for beta-ing.

Sherlock was late. 

They were supposed to meet for lunch at Angelo's and John had been waiting for 15 minutes when Sherlock finally came flying through the doors in a flurry. His cheeks were flushed from the wind, which was gusting outside, a wide smile on his face and John felt himself smiling back as Sherlock took a seat across from him in their usual booth. John, couldn't find it within himself to be annoyed at Sherlock's tardiness in the face of his obvious glee.

"It was the gardener John! She swallowed the key so it wouldn't be on her when we searched the employees on their way out of the building, and made a fake of the old one so no one would see it was missing and then she excreted it in time to try and get back into the building to finish the job. But she was sloppy. Instead of making a carbon copy of the old key, she had a poorly made fake replacement made. It was obviously not the key to the jewel room--so I knew someone was going to make a second attempt on Mr. Comden's life..."

John listened, entranced as Sherlock descibed the denoument of his tale,  nostalgia creeping over him. It had been so long since he'd been on a case with Sherlock, he'd nearly forgotten how exciting it could be.

Angelo came to take their orders before long and by then Sherlock had calmed down quite a bit.

"Oi, John! I haven't seen you in here in quite a while! How's the lovely wife?"

Sherlock visibly blanched before collecting himself and preparing to go to John's rescue. But John had seen it coming and was ready. He answered Angelo's query before Sherlock could open his mouth.

"She passed away a few months ago, unfortunately. Leukemia. It was very sudden, but I've been doing okay, mostly thanks to Sherlock."

Sherlock whipped around to look at John. His voice had been steady and calm, his eyes shone and he smiled bittersweetly at poor Angelo who looked gobsmacked.

"My God, John. Now that's right awful. I'm so sorry for your loss, both of you's. If you ever need anything you know you can come to me, eh?" 

"Thank you Angelo, it means a lot to me," John said sincerely. He meant what he had said, if it weren't for Sherlock, he didn't know where he would be right about now. He definitely wouldn't be doing as well as he was currently. It had only been seven months since Mary had died. It still felt like it had happened yesterday. Yet it didn't sting as much, mostly due to Sherlock's support. 

The detective had been there from the very beginning, holding Mary's hand when she received her prognosis, and holding her hair back while she threw up from the chemo, to the funeral, arranging everything so John could grieve. When John had expressed a wish to move back into Baker Street about a month after the funeral--he'd been sleeping there almost constantly anyways--Sherlock had acquiesed with quiet enthusiasm, helping John pack everything up, but carefully not treating him as though he were too fragile to do it himself. 

Sherlock seemed cautious to coddle John too much, yet he quietly assessed John's moods every morning, and John figured that he didn't realize that John was aware of the stares he gave him, but he was. He noticed every single time Sherlock seemed to go off into space staring at him with a crinkle of concern  between his eyebrows and scrutinized the state of his hygiene, trying to glean whether he was feeling depressed that particular morning.

For the most part, John just ignored it, knowing that pointing it out would just make Sherlock more self-conscious about smothering him, and it wasn't like John was too bothered about it. Sherlock had actually been very handy in deflecting well-wishers and sympathetic great aunts, and overall just shielding him from the pain of the real world for the past few months. He'd even tried to keep his experiments out of the kitchen to a degree in an effort to minimize John's stressors. But John had had enough.

He wasn't going to hide behind Sherlock forever and he had to move on. Acknowledging what had happened was important. 

While Angelo took their orders John chanced a look over at Sherlock and was suprised to see the detective contemplating him, a small smile on his face.

"I'm proud of you," he murmured quietly after Angelo left.

John took a sip of his water and hummed noncommittally, but he couldn't stop the side of his mouth from twitching upwards. 

"You want to watch one of those terrible action films you like tonight?" Sherlock was up to something. John arched an eyebrow at him.

"What do you want, Sherlock? You never watch Bond films willingly." John looked him up and down, trying fruitlessly to deduce his motive.

"Nothing. You just seem to be doing much better today is all. I thought we should celebrate."

"You sure that's it? No mold cultures in the tub right?" Sherlock may have tried to keep his experiments out of the kitchen for John's sake, but that mostly meant relocating them to other areas of the flat.

 John looked out the window. The sky had been hazy all morning, and the early autumn wind biting, but as he watched the gales began to clear the sky, pushing the clouds out of the way so the sun could peek through.

"I want you to come on a case with me tomorrow."

John's gaze snapped back to Sherlock, who was watching him apprehensively, his cerulean eyes searching John's.

"I've missed you John. Anderson is insufferable. You're ready. You've been ready. Call the clinic, tell them you've got somewhere to be, quit if you must. Sarah will always give you your old job back if you still feel the need to work when we haven't got a case on," Sherlock rasped, his calculated facade falling away as his voice grew more pleading. "Please, John," he added. "Please."

To say John was surprised was an understatement of the worst kind. Ever since Mary died, Sherlock had never once tried to get John to do something unless John had suggested it himself. He had never suggested that John grieve faster, or pushed him before he was ready, or suggested he get out of the house. When John had gone back to work, it had been of his own volition. Once, John came home late, completely pissed, and Sherlock hadn't said anything, just manhandled him upstairs and into his bed. The next time he had gone drinking, Sherlock tagged along. He hadn't said a word, just watched him and made sure that he made it home safely. They never argued over anything that mattered. Not money, not Mary, not the six-pack permanently parked on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Nor did he mention the fact the fact that John didn't sleep upstairs for the first few weeks, but slept on the couch while Sherlock played his violin until John fell asleep, and then fell asleep himself in the leather armchair.

So the afternoon when Sherlock Holmes looked him in the eyes and asked him for something, John Watson said yes.


End file.
